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coffeeandcalligraphy · 1 year

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24-Karat Harrison | BODY BACK Update #3

THE WRITING UPDATE WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR (I’M WE)!

Let's chat chapter 3 of my literary fiction novella, BODY BACK! Harrison stares at himself in so many bathroom mirrors, gets down to Don't Cha (Pussycat Dolls), tries to forget the man he once was, reclaims himself through excess, & more! Post under the cut!

Logline: After an argument with his mother draws him much too close to the past, Harrison turns to Jeremiah to help him develop a gilded persona.

Update 1 | Update 2

BODY BACK taglist (please ask to be added or removed :))

@thelivingdeceased @writinglittlebeastss @cuntylittlesalmon @obssesedwithscandaledits @jaydewritesfiction @keira-is-writing @onomatopiya @dustyplotbunnies @euphoniouspandemonium @rowansghost @strangerays @rodentwrites @wildswrites @saltwaterbells

Random thoughts turn into...

A couple weeks ago, I was oversharing in my tags and in the process of doing so, came up with the phrase "24-karat harrison."

#I don't drink but I can positively say drunk rachel would 100% be just harrison like 24 karat harrison #actually going to get him to describe himself as 24 karat harrison in the next bb chapter fantastic this was a productive random thought

AND SO 24K HARRISON WAS BORN!

What does it mean to split yourself into two facets, one polished, one unpolished? What could you do if YOU were "24-karat" for a day? This phrase instantly shaped the entire direction of this chapter.

Also, as a poet, I cannot overlook how wonderfully "24-karat" and "Harrison" match each other. VISUAL congruency?? Syllabic harmony??? THE ASSONANCE?? He was built for this.

The plot

CW: this is the most *mature content* chapter I've written in BB so there are mentions of sex, drugs, and suicidal ideation.

"24-Karat Harrison" jumps right off the last chapter of BB where Harrison's stormed away from his mother after she drives him to Lonan's apartment (lol). He arrives at Jeremiah's place tired of who he is and in desperate need of a major change.

The chapter is split into two simple halves: scenes in Jeremiah's apartment, and scenes in a Las Vegas nightclub. How Harrison manages to get into so many shenanigans in these two locations alone astounds me! :)

Scene A:

Harrison turns up on Jeremiah's doorstep soaking wet from the rain. He's looking for a distraction :) & Jeremiah provides :)

Scene B:

A Haremiah pillow talk moment that ends abruptly when Harrison asks Jeremiah if he has Tylenol???? (romantic king /s)

In scene A, Harrison noticed Jeremiah hosted a party. Here, he asks him why he wasn't invited, and Jeremiah suggests it's because he seems too quiet to party

Scene C:

In an attempt to manufacture a more confident personality, Jeremiah helps style Harrison, complete with a fur coat and cowboy hat (horrifying).

Scene D:

Harrison retreats to the bathroom while he and Jeremiah wait for their ride to the club. He's not confident despite the new outfit and goes feral on Jeremiah's hair products, makeup, cologne etc. He finally sees 24-Karat Harrison in the mirror and is pleased.

Scene E:

At the club, Harrison and Jeremiah run into Biyu, Jeremiah's friend from Chapter 6 of Moth Work. His confidence is shot when she suggests he's quiet despite his new persona.

Scene F:

Harrison dances with Jeremiah, but is unable to shake Biyu's comments. He presses Jeremiah for validation, but Jeremiah wants to have a good night, not therapize the man he's seeing.

As Harrison continues to pester, Jeremiah reunites with his friends and is drawn into a (potential) group make out session. Harrison gets overstimulated.

Harrison flees to the club bathroom for reprieve when he again catches his reflection and doesn't recognize himself. His lack of recognition angers him--he's tired of seeing everyone in his face but himself.

A man--Perry--who is one of Jeremiah's friends, interrupts Harrison at the mirror to flirt. Harrison is agitated but drawn to him nonetheless.

Writing process & themes

I talked about how I structure chapters for BODY BACK in THIS post, but essentially, I orbit each scene around a particular theme.

I didn't really know what the theme of this chapter was until yesterday. I'd noticed I kept "repeating beats" throughout this chapter--particularly, Harrison analyzing himself in bathroom mirrors, which happens THREE times. At first, I thought I'd done something wrong because Harrison seemed to keep "backtracking" in narrative which made his psychology seem inconsistent.

By the time I got to the final reflection analyzation though, I realized THAT was the theme--bobbing between extremes when you're in the middle of an identity crisis.

What Harrison doesn't admit to himself in this chapter is that he's lost himself since he broke up with Lonan. The only Harrison he knows is the Harrison who chased Lonan across the country, put his needs above his own, etc. Now that Lonan's gone, Harrison doesn't know himself at all. This is why he reaches toward 24k Harrison, a caricature of himself painted in broad, unsubtle strokes--at the very least, he won't forget himself if he looks ridiculous.

But it doesn't work! This is because versions of who he "was" keep popping up. He can't help but feel like the vulnerable person he was when he was with Lonan.

Therefore, we really explore extremes in 24kH. Extreme pleasure VS extreme hollowness (Jeremiah kissing him in the doorway and then immediately walking away in scene A). In scene C he’s hot but he’s not. He wants to sleep with himself but he’s not desirable at all. He's alright with begging but wants to be begged. He wants to live a very specific life where he buys cowboy hats for livestock and eats ice cream with his hands but he also wants to die. He’s Jesus but he’s discarded bits of gold (THANK YOU for pointing that out @jaydewritesfiction!). He’s twinkling but he’s the dullest person in the room.

It took me a while to actually see I'd been doing that--purposefully creating contradictions in narrative--the ENTIRE chapter. Smh Rachel, good job with all those literary devices you didn't realize you were using.

This chapter took me a lot longer to write than I wanted it to (about a month), but it's also because it's SO long (7k, which is currently half the manuscript). I'm so happy with how it turned out though because its creation represents EVERYTHING I love about it: impulsivity, chasing highs, uncovering darker folds of you the longer you sit inside manufactured gold.

Music

Music was SOOO important in the conception and understanding of 24kH for me, more than usual! In fact, I've made a very specific playlist that is a track-by-track breakdown of the chapter (in order).

Here's a quick breakdown of each song & where they go in the chapter!

1. Nobody by Greyson Chance (studio version) - Backbone of the ENTIRE chapter!!!! Chapter starts with this song.

2. Hands by Greyson Chance - Haremiah make out ANTHEM <3. Also in scene A.

3. Hellboy by Greyson Chance - End of scene A where Haremiah gets... intense lol love <3

4. Fade Into You by Mazzy Star - This is on the radio while Haremiah gets DOWN. Start of scene B.

5. Aloe Vera by Greyson Chance - Haremiah sharing a joint & pillow talk song. Middle of scene B.

6. I Got So High That I Saw Jesus by Noah Cyrus - Haremiah sharing a joint & pillow talk song but it's getting sadder & more internal. End of scene B.

7. Nobody by Greyson Chance (live version) - CRITICAL song for this chapter so it appears twice!!! Live version is Harrison at the start of scene C.

8. Black Mascara by Greyson Chance - Harrison analyzing himself in the mirror ANTHEM (this song is also the backbone of this chapter). Harrison goes feral in the bathroom because he thinks he's better off when he does what he fucking wants etc.

9. I'm Too Sexy by Right Said Fred - Actually this is supposed to be the Shrek version :) so :) anyway self-explanatory. Rest of C.

10. Welcome to the DCC by Nothing But Thieves - Walking into the club anthem (scene E).

11. SexyBack by Justin Timberlake - Dancing and feeling real good about it (beginning of scene F).

12. Don't Cha by The Pussycat Dolls - SELF-EXPLANATORY don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like 24-karat Harrison (middle of scene F).

13. Sex & Other Drugs by Greyson Chance - Fleeing to the bathroom anthem (for sex & other drugs??? maybe; rest of scene F).

I also wanted to talk about the significance of the track Nobody because... it's this WHOLE chapter! I wrote this tag essay about it a couple weeks ago when I shared an excerpt where Harrison sees himself as a trophy while in the 24kH getup (excerpted later in the post):

#also there are many greyson chance easter eggs here #the trophy bit i've already mentioned is a reference to the live version of “nobody” #where he goes 'i'm not the trophy you think i am' #which is actually not in the studio version #ANYWAY the LIVE VERSION is a sad piano ballad of THAT #so anyway I love that the trophy line #was cut from the studio version but is in the sad piano version lol #don't know how to more articulately describe harrison's psychology in BB except for... that

The idea of "I'm not the trophy you think I am" really is the thematic crux of this chapter. Harrison KNOWS he's not good enough for Jeremiah. He also knows he wasn't good enough for Lonan. Everyone's looking at him like he's a saint somehow--to Lonan he was, only mattering when he was long martyred. Jeremiah sees too much good in Harrison, good that Harrison doesn't see in himself. At moments, Harrison IS confident. He IS the trophy. But then there are those sobering moments when reality hits him and he knows he just isn't (SAD). It's why he creates 24kH because HE could be good enough (and the truth is, he still isn't).

Excerpts

Jeremiah greets Harrison at the door lol:

Jeremiah might be the only man alive who’d open the door for someone as soggy as Harrison.

He’s shirtless and damp from the shower, a green toothbrush lodged against his gums. His heathered sweats drape low on his waist, bronze skin varnished with moisturizer. And Harrison likes this—a man mid nighttime routine—but what he likes more is how unstartled Jeremiah is when he grabs him by the hips and kisses him so hard, bristles jolt against his tongue. What’s he looking for in another man’s mouth—heavens, gods, a prayer? Fuck if he knows. What matters are Jeremiah’s chiclet teeth, Jeremiah’s healthy gums, the way in one gulp, they all become Harrison’s. And this is what normal is, yeah—Jeremiah a minty man ensconced by a bare tungsten bulb, Harrison his midnight lover, both of them in need of the other simply because they are here, alive, men.

Jeremiah gives Harrison whiplash lmao show him king!!!:

But in one dizzy breath, they’re separated, and the thought is gone as quickly as Jeremiah who slinks through his apartment like an unbothered shorthair, telling Harrison to lock the front door, to follow him to the bathroom.

Harrison’s ears buzz. He stares at the living room, wipes his mouth of foam, his lips tingling with menthol. Jeremiah hosted a party earlier. A game of parcheesi scattered on the coffee table, the kitchen sink teetering with mismatched cups, saucers. Cigarette butts pock a strawberry-shaped ashtray like seeds. Harrison salivates, tempted for a moment to filch around for one salvageable enough to relight. It’s only when Jeremiah calls his name that he shakes out of his stupor. But still, by the time he reaches the beaded bathroom door, he has to distract his mouth by digging his lips into the scalloped moulding.

Jeremiah crooks a brow at him in the mirror, then turns to the sink, spits. He’s gargling with mouthwash when he asks a question.

“What?” Harrison asks. His head hurts. Jeremiah would have a bottle of acetaminophen in his medicine cabinet, wouldn’t he?

Jeremiah holds up a hand as he swishes, rubbing at spats of toothpaste on the mirror with his wrist. He spits again. “You go swimming or something?”

Jeremiah is an ANGEL in the bathroom:

Jeremiah leans against the counter, haloed by one of three lightbulbs that isn’t blown out over the vanity. Harrison offered to replace them a week ago and still hasn’t done it, perhaps because the low light is more inviting, the way it cups Jeremiah like mist. Though maybe any lighting would be inviting to Harrison when he’s like this—in such high need of ravaging something.

Jeremiah wets his lips, glancing away with a mute smile before he looks right back. “Or is the rain really bad?” Harrison takes a step forward, and then another, another. Suzanna could be looking for him, calling everyone she knows in this city to help bring her son home. She won’t sleep tonight, and Harrison won’t either but for different reasons. In front of him, Jeremiah is as sunny as he is unaware, his curls plump around his ears, a man Harrison would like to undo with one look—to make beg, like gods make their believers do.

Lonan Clark behaviour:

“You’re like a wet dog,” says Jeremiah. A breath wheezes in his chest.

Harrison looks up at him. From this angle, bowed against another man’s body, he could look like a believer in supplication. Please go gently. Please spare my life. “Thank you.”

CUTE Haremiah interrupted by Harrison's terrible timing:

Now Jeremiah nuzzles into his ribs. He smells like soap and orange rinds, his tattooed skin downy under Harrison’s callused fingertips. He traces an empty fishbowl on Jeremiah’s arm with his pinkie, a half-finished anatomical heart with his thumb, a wobbly dandelion with his ring finger, the cherub guarding his elbow with his index. I love you, he could say. They’ve known each other for two weeks, hung out less than ten times, spent most of their time examining each other’s hands. But this could be love, right? Jeremiah’s made him breakfast every night he’s stayed over—peach French toast, hot muesli, black coffee. Every time they watch film noir on Jeremiah’s two-seater, they simply find each other’s hair and twirl, sometimes meet each other’s mouths and hover there, these clement weekend lovers.

“You got any painkillers?” Harrison asks.

Jeremiah jerks against his skin, his nose knocking into Harrison’s shoulder blade. He hikes onto his elbow, brows furrowed like he’s about to say something when his eyes narrow on Harrison’s finger.

“You’re wearing my ring,” he says, leaning toward Harrison’s hand for a better look.

“Am I?”

If I were Harrison I would simply just forget about Lonan because JEREMIAH???

Jeremiah should paint his room sage. The cherrywood picture frames warrant it. In the corner, a gold mirror flares like Jesus’ spoked halo. Two crinkled issues of the New York Times on the vanity, an ivory sheepskin throw collapsed in the corner. Jeremiah exists here mid-motion—the condom wrappers on the hardwood leading to the mattress like Hansel’s pebbles, sunglasses spoked in a magazine rack, a used cotton ball stained with black nail polish on the windowsill. Harrison absorbs it all on his back like rapidly flattening dough. He could be part of this room, too. Last Monday, Jeremiah suggested he move in. “You can sleep in the bathtub,” he joked, but kissed the back of Harrison’s neck. He’d smelled bright like the leather polish he’d buffed onto his bomber jacket. “Or elsewhere.”

Jeremiah as a trophy & LMFAO tYLeNoL???

Now, Harrison weakly reaches for Jeremiah’s hair, winds a curl around his finger. Jeremiah is soft like brioche and as dazzling as a mirror ball. And what’s the difference between worshipping him and Jesus if they are both men? At least Jeremiah is here, a trophy in front of him.

“Tylenol?” he whispers.

Cont'd:

Jeremiah places a hand on Harrison’s face. In his eyes, Harrison is insufficient, an edge of a man. Perhaps it’s the headache or Jeremiah’s gentle concern, but after a moment, the feeling is so unbearable that he pulls away and buries his face in the pillow. The mattress springs when Jeremiah rises, and for a moment, Harrison feels suspended in air like a crucified Jesus above the altar. He doesn’t have a face, a body, a heart. He is just dust.

Harrison wants to be a spider so he can finally be a homeowner?? ok same:

He slumps back onto the bed, analyzing the popcorn ceiling when Jeremiah climbs in next to him. He slings an arm around Harrison’s bare shoulders, and they pass the joint back and forth, its scent rich like oregano. The smoke is delicate as a dissipating spider’s web, pale and gauzy like a curtain in morning light. As Harrison smokes, he imagines what it might be like to be an arachnid—the many homes he could make.

Harrison really knows how to ruin a moment pt. 5 bajillion:

There’s a damp spot on the ceiling that’s only visible when car headlights skirt past the building. Harrison’s meant to ask about it, but what would be the point now? It’s not like he could fix it—and if Jeremiah doesn’t look at the right time, he’ll never notice. “You didn’t invite me,” Harrison says.

Jeremiah jumps. From here, he’s a mere lump under the covers, the only physical evidence of him his warm breaths on Harrison’s stomach. “What?” he asks.

Harrison twists the joint, puffs. His tongue feels bloated like his jacket. “To your party.”

A pause. When Jeremiah next speaks, his voice is muffled by the sheets. “I didn’t think that was your scene.” He rests his cheek on Harrison’s sternum, and he’s heavy like the jacket too. “You know. Crowds.”

“What made you think that?”

Jeremiah burrows out from the duvet. Harrison knows he’s trying to look at him, but he’s caught up in the ceiling again, the way that patch ebbs like a candle’s flame. “You’re…”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Jeremiah says, crossing his legs. “Meek.”

Harrison wants to laugh—meek like a lamb, a poplar, a monotonous prairie, a man’s whispered okay, a frail river, a piano’s high C played over and over and over and over and over again—but what comes out instead is a whimper. Jeremiah cups his face again, says something about good things, compliments, the power in mildness. He smells like baby powder now, plumeria—and why is that? He’s a man forever in change even in the simplest of ways, thriving in his evolution. Harrison’s favourite colour has been the same since he was four.

He holds Jeremiah’s jaw to shut him up. His eyes are flecked with topaz today, sienna tomorrow. If Harrison could touch God tonight. If Harrison could believe in something for just a minute.

“Make me feral,” he whispers.

COWBOY HAT??

Jeremiah starts with a new jacket. He’s made it clear that Harrison can’t go clubbing soaking wet, so they rifle through his closet and land on a fur coat that was last dry-cleaned months ago. It’s knee-length, the sleeves wide catacombs, the taupe fur brindled like Eliza’s tortoise-shell ring. Lonan’s ring, technically. In front of his standing mirror, Jeremiah unearths it from the garment bag like it’s a body, holds the hanger in front of Harrison so the fabric drapes off his chest.

“You like it?” asks Jeremiah, cheek pressed to Harrison’s shoulder blade. He’s laid out a tasseled button-up for himself that glitters like hematite in the light, and he’ll dazzle in it, of course—Jeremiah is built for this, the sharpened eyeliners on the bathroom counter, the dented cans of hair mousse, the nail file on the dresser, the ridged perfume atomizer he’ll mist himself with a moment before they leave the apartment. He is sleek beauty, a marbleized man ready to be polished, adored.

And what is Harrison, then? With the fur coat cinched against his body, he could be polished, too, couldn’t he? Sure, he isn’t a gilded icon, but maybe he sees Jesus in his face right now because he has the potential to be, or because at their cores, they’re both sad men. His hair doesn’t have to look like Suzanna’s, but instead like the young bark of cinnamon. And his eyes—they’re not his father’s but his own, an unmarred pool of teal. Maybe he’s a little rough where he should be suave, but that’s hot nowadays, isn’t it? Besides, if Jeremiah sees something angelic in that mirror, then yeah, Harrison could see it too. Forget his cryptic mouth, his hair that’s too long as Suzanna pointed out, his eyes and the way they’re wounded, not like a deer’s in headlights but like a deer’s in death. Forget the scar across his forehead, the way another man’s hands used to touch it not like it was lightning but a pathway to some better place. Sure, Harrison’s no Christ, no Jacob, no God—but why should he be? He’s here under the tungsten bite of Jeremiah’s chandelier, a man in shameless excess, eyes more spangled than this country’s flag. And he could stay here, couldn’t he? He could enjoy staring at himself, not like he’s bronze but like he’s pure gold.

Cont'd (this is so sad LOL):

He straightens, adjusts the fur on his shoulder. In truth, he looks too much like his mother, stands too much like his father, stares too much like Lonan. His hands aren’t soft. He’s got split ends. At best he smells like cigarette smoke, car exhaust, chlorine. But what does Jeremiah see? Maybe someone loveable yeah, maybe someone to cry over. For a moment, Harrison worries the answer is nothing at all.

And then a nose nudges against the back of his neck, Jeremiah muttering about Madonna’s new album, buying new razors, growing his own marijuana. In minutes, they’ll be dancing until the room spirals or until they’re extensions of the other, whichever comes first. And Harrison will love it all because he loves everything about his life—this new jacket, this new man, this face that isn’t a reminder of who used to look at it, this muggy room, this mirror like a portal he could almost step through, this breakthrough because he’s gold. He’s gold.

Harrison steps away from the mirror, presses a hand against his eyeball. He’s going to need another Tylenol. An Ibuprofen for the hell of it. What if Jacob never dreamt of God, made the whole story up? What if Jacob just wanted to run away with his livestock? Harrison could use livestock.

He turns to Jeremiah. “You got a cowboy hat?” he asks.

Harrison making out with himself because that's a normal thing to do:

Funnily, Jeremiah does have a cowboy hat. It’s aptly doused in cow-print, smells like plastic and mulch. In the bathroom, Harrison adjusts its stampede strings around his chin.

He leans against the counter, pressing his thumbs to his cheeks. He pulls at his eye sockets, his skin giving like a tablecloth twisted under the heave of roasted turkey. His eyes are rimmed in scarlet—how many times has he seen Suzanna with these eyes, and do her eyes look like this now? She’s probably looking for him, calling his name out in the night like it’s a prayer she knows won’t be answered. Would he take himself to bed like this? In thirty more minutes when he guzzles a vodka soda, his answer will be absolutely.

Harrison, he mouths to himself in the mirror. The bathroom is filmy or maybe it’s him—he’s in chrysalis, bloated in his own becoming or suffocation or whatever the fuck. The thing is, he doesn’t need a god and might be a king, but he’s also a man with a pounding headache. He tries again, his mouth shifty like cornmeal, like ash: Harrison. What do kings do when they get migraines? Buy a donut? Eat a saint? His eye sockets are vacant, his cuticles spinning into one another, hair sentient from the pool. Harrison. The walls smell like Jeremiah’s hair gel, Jeremiah’s fingerprints, Jeremiah’s latest cologne. In a minute, the paint could start peeling and Harrison could pick up the chips, tack them to his jaw like they’re gold stars or little HELLO my name is stickers. HELLO my name is, HELLO my name is, HELLO my name is. Harrison. Harrison. Harrison. He kneads his cheeks like he’s sourdough, pinches his eyebrows, goes: Harrison, sticks his fist in his mouth tries again—Harrison. Jeremiah knocks on the door, says something about leaving soon, a friend waiting on them.

Harrison sinks onto his elbows, hovering closer to his reflection. If he were another man, he’d kiss himself, right? Without a thought, he does, mouth glugging against the mirror. He doesn’t need any touch but his own—not Jeremiah’s, not Lonan’s. He’s a man in love with himself, right? He’s a good dancer, never burns pancakes, isn’t afraid of spiders. What’s not to like? When he pulls back, panting, his eyes are watery and he needs a drink now, a god to abandon, a lake to drown in, a coastline to paint, a mother to cry into, a Bible to burn, a guitar string to snap, a dragon tree to kill, a father to remember, a prayer to scream, a place to close his eyes and sleep forever.

He grabs Jeremiah’s eyelash curler off the counter, crimps his lashes so hard he pinches his skin. He doesn’t care. He’s yanking open cupboards and pulling out an eyeshadow palette, smearing silver pigment onto his eyelids, under them. He’s raking a wand of black mascara through his lashes like he’s the grass buried under leaves—like this is the only way to reveal himself. And maybe this is the way, spritzing himself in Jeremiah’s vetiver or orange rinds or baby powder. Harrison. He wants to punch his nose until he bleeds. He wants to kiss himself again.

0 to 100 all the way back to 0 babe:

Harrison meets his eyes in the mirror. Is he an animal? He must be something feral, starved of something and ravaged by that hunger. He could touch himself right here. Or not. He’s barely a man, staring at his face not like it’s his, but like it’s someone else’s. And how tired he is of that. Being a shadow.

He is the MOMENT:

Before he exits the bathroom, he studies his sterling reflection. He’s not who he once was. No Christ, no Jacob, no Jeremiah. And he shouldn’t be. Because he’s twenty-four karat, twinkling, not just otherworldly, unforgiving, untouchable, not just a god or a man—but a trophy at last.

Biyu puts Harrison in his place lmaoo:

By the time they cab to the club, Harrison’s so high he can nearly taste the neon lights. As they slot through the front door with other partygoers like flocking geese, he blinks at the rush of it all—the women comparing press-on nails by the coat-check, the men wearing vinyl and leather and glitter, drenched in cologne and sweat.

“You’re late,” comes a voice which should be familiar to Harrison, but under the thump of bodies, sounds as generic as a bag of baby carrots.

“Fashionably late,” says Jeremiah, his arm slung around Harrison’s furred shoulders. He pulls him close, toward the person, the woman, smells like sea salt, iron, a new set of rings flaring in the blue spotlights. “You remember Harrison?”

As if on cue, Harrison lifts his eyes to Biyu’s, Jeremiah’s friend from the restaurant. Tonight, she wears a gold cowlneck dress, her lipstick the colour of rust. And something’s different about her hair—the sides of her bob shaved, which is more of a relief than he’d like to admit. She’d looked alarmingly like Reeve when they’d met, moved like her, sounded like her. Maybe he’s too high to see it now, but what does it matter—a win is a win.

Harrison tips his hat, already searching for the bar.

“The quiet one,” Biyu says.

His eyes snap back to her. Her pupils are large disks, and if he squints, almost look like they’re pulsating. “What?”

“You were quiet,” she repeats.

Don't Cha!! ft. this:

Harrison dances because he knows exactly how to. To thready vocals, he lulls his arms through the air, drags his palm down Jeremiah’s chest when an electro version of Like a Virgin comes on. On the lighted dance floor he’s nothing but rattling limbs, inelegant turns, raunchy dips. Shifting atop his head: the cowboy hat. In his hand: a vodka soda topped with a maraschino cherry. Through half of Don’t Cha, he holds the red cocktail sword between his teeth like it’s a rose, nudges it against Jeremiah’s lip as they kiss, break apart, kiss again.

“Do you think I’m quiet?” he asks between a spin, his head unspooling like a cylinder of thread. The clang of drums spikes up his throat—soon, he’ll need a refill on the drink. More weed. A crucifix to snap.

Jeremiah twirls under Harrison’s arm, a magnetic man in his tourmaline glister. He could follow any man in this club home tonight with his silver nails, his exposed collarbone. “Kiss me again,” he says, sweating, his fingers hard around Harrison’s shoulders—half from his grip, half from his rings.

Jeremiah is really too patient:

This is what he needs, a consideration of fruit and the man in front of him, all svelte limbs, acidic mouth, sharp eyeliner. As he ducks to In Da Club and shimmies to Waiting for Tonight, he digs a palm into Jeremiah’s cheek—he’s solid like limestone, burnished as bronze, his eyes amber portals like a patch of quicksand.

“Did you tell Biyu about me?” Harrison asks. His head pounds, the music too loud, swelling in his ears like an inflating airbag. He should go back to the bar now. They’ve got whiskey sours, gibsons, margaritas. If he flutters his eyelashes long enough at the bartender, maybe he’ll get a little more than a free drink—that’s fine too. Kelly Clarkson sings about praying, breaking, and he could do both in the hands of someone who smells like blood oranges, tastes like Bible paper, stares like Jesus the moment before he performs a miracle, couldn’t he?

“Focus on me,” Jeremiah says, guiding Harrison closer by the hips, so confident as his wooden Mary bracelet jolts with the movement because he’s here in this blinking room, dancing because he’s twenty-one just like Harrison, because he’s electric, alive, because he’s blinding like noonday sun, steady as a fountain cycling the same water over and over, because he’s unashamed in this brisk light, shocking like the zip of battery acid on a tongue. He doesn’t need to try, melds into the bleating crowd like he’s part of it, and he is. He smells like pomegranates, tastes like cherries the next time Harrison kisses him—Chapstick? Cocktail?—and tomorrow, he’ll rise early for a shift at Greta, slip on his navy uniform polo, his makeup untouched despite everything Harrison will do to him tonight because he’s faultless, not quiet, hair precariously puffed, nails buffed to a glassy sheen. He and Biyu might catch breakfast at dawn, bond over their glittery eyelids, their intrinsic closeness, wonder over poached eggs if he’s worth it—graceless Harrison in this cowboy hat and smudged makeup, his jacket cuffs soaked with vodka soda, his head lolling to the insistent voice of Justin Timberlake.

“Biyu thinks I’m quiet,” Harrison says, knocking back the rest of his drink, his neck cracking. He wants to scratch off his face, replace it with someone else’s. “You think I’m meek. So what is it? Do I need to get a tattoo or something?”

Jeremiah glances around the club, his irises starred by a spotlight. What does he see when he looks out at the crowd? Perhaps he recognizes half of these people—from the way he ordered at the bar to the way he slunk so easily onto the dance floor, Harrison assumes he’s been here before. And maybe it’s not just that he recognizes everyone else on the floor, but that they recognize him in return.

Cont'd but with a lot more mouths:

“Did you hear what I said?” Harrison asks.

Jeremiah’s eyes snap back to his, except there’s something hazy there, something tired. “What would a tattoo do for you?”

“I don’t know. Edge? I just think I could—”

And then Jeremiah’s turned away again, right into the arms of someone else—a tanned man with a dense mustache and olive eyes, the man going, “It’s been too long,” and Jeremiah going “It’s been too long,” their grins calcium white, flashing in Harrison’s face. He throws a hand up to his eyes, squints when a second later, the man pulls a woman toward Jeremiah, her hair cropped low and cotton candy pink. She kisses his cheek, says he looks ravishing, he looks like a comet on its way to ignite planet earth, and they’re all holding each other now, friends bopping to Gwen Stefani, admiring each other’s bracelets, thumbs, friends curving toward each other’s ears, kissing each other’s cheeks, each other’s mouths.

Harrison blinks because how many hands do they have now? Every second they seem to multiply—pink hair girl with four, Jeremiah with six. One’s tongue the other’s. Their fingertips fusing. The club fritzes around them like it’s confetti, the lights rippling into a Christmas bow and now there’s a redheaded man running his nose along Jeremiah’s neck, down Jeremiah’s shoulder, wrist, hand. Harrison had just done that back in his apartment, pinned chest-to-chest against him like a monarch fastened to a spreading board, and here Jeremiah is now, enmeshed in touch, in adoration because he should be adored—the men congregating around him now have their priorities straight. If they all got on their knees at Jeremiah’s feet, Harrison would understand. They aren’t exclusive, don’t even know each other’s last names, and besides, how can Jeremiah help how everyone magnetizes around him? Harrison can’t blame them. Jeremiah is illusory under the disco ball’s speckled light, his throat long, biteable, his eyes syrupy in his high. A woman takes him by the shoulder, but not just any woman—Biyu, and her eyes are pinched, analyzing, because she’s looking at Harrison, her glossy crimson nails on Jeremiah’s cheek, and she’s kissing him too now, her body joining the cluster, and it’s good, the way they all roll limbs to synth, the way they turn into each other’s faces and kiss, kiss, kiss. The music clangs, their mouths full of spit. The DJ says to hold your partners close, and they don’t have to. They are not simply together, not simply in chrysalis, but osmosed in their becoming.

Cont'd (GIANT sentence - CW: self harm)

A hand on Harrison’s elbow. He flinches and is surprised to see it’s Jeremiah who’s touched him. How did he get here so fast? Harrison expects a trail of blurry bodies to follow him, but where did everyone go? They’ve dashed from the club like embers scattering from a dulled fire, nowhere to be seen but dangerous anyway and weren’t they all just over there, under there, and are they lonely on the ceiling and how do they plan to get down and is it too loud in here and why is no one using their indoor voices and should he cover his ears and where is his mother now and how did Mary say I love you and did she ever dream of fleeing to Hollywood or speeding down the I-40 or telling Gabriel no and why does everyone worship a god who demands and calls it creation and what’s his name again—Harrison?—and when did his hands sprout from child to whatever he is now and should he dye his hair red, cut his wrists again and is it possible to be young and happy about it and is he still dancing, he’s still dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing, and someone’s complimenting his silver eyelids and would he like them to touch him gently and is it hot in here to anyone else and does he taste blood or the ocean and is this what it feels like to die in holy light and Jeremiah’s right in front of him, unkissed, still as dark water, as Lonan in the night, and now he’s holding Harrison’s face, his rings cool against his skin, and he’s kissing him too, tastes like spearmint and chocolate lip gloss, rum and Coke, rusted metal—the mouths of everyone in this room and this isn’t so bad, how their bodies net into each other, how in one breath, Harrison’s teeth clack against Jeremiah’s, and in the next, clack against another man’s and then another’s, his stubble rough, mouth sour, a chandelier earring flailing against his cheek, and then through his ear, his hands wound into cinnamon hair and he could be kissing himself and maybe he is and doesn’t he want that, the floor gelid, the music like cotton wool, their pelvises threaded, the walls caving, their mouths locked, the floor lava, the room too bright, his headache like an earthquake, two pairs of hands rattling to the beat of this bursting room one moment, then clutched together as they follow each other to a dim bathroom.

This section was inspired by @dallonwrites' lyrics in narrative post!!! also soft Felix cameo <3

The room is electric purple, smells like grapes, sweat, flexes under Harrison’s shoes like a sandcastle collapsing, like a sinkhole swallowing a house. Bodies weave across the floor, someone lighting a joint in the corner, someone reciting Sylvia Plath into a paper bag, going, the happening of this happening, going, the earth turns now.

Harrison’s head pounds—he should’ve brought a blister pack of acetaminophen because at least then he’d have something to punch, or he should’ve punched out his own eye by now, disappeared with another man who isn’t Jeremiah and didn’t he try, and where is the man with cinnamon hair now? Harrison turns to look for him, but the room ripples with his movement, shirring in staccato clacks around him like a shaken rice maraca. He’d hoped he’d write his number on a man’s wrist tonight even though he doesn’t have a cell phone—he’d hoped he’d go home with someone who shouts the lyrics to Madonna’s Everybody in twilight’s stillness, a man who’d let the DJ shake him, a man who’d let the music take him. And he could do all of that with Jeremiah—Jeremiah who probably did those things at the party Harrison wasn’t invited to, Jeremiah who knows how to pass off frozen spanakopita as homemade because he’s a good host, Jeremiah who knows how to kick people out of his apartment with kindness, Jeremiah who’s built to be kissed, to be loved. And where is he now? In the artificial light, Harrison hunts for him too—but he’s not in the unhinging bathroom stalls, not in the teal grout, the running sinks, and maybe he never existed at all, missing like Jesus in the tomb—body gone, body gone, body gone.

Cont'd BODY BACK BODY BACK BODY BACK:

Harrison rubs his eyes. His ears still ring from the clatter outside, and he stands at the bathroom’s entrance like a child who’s lost his mother in the mall. Should he sit down? A group of girls form a ring on the floor, chant about Leos, Britney, men. Someone shuffles in past him, knocks into his shoulder by accident, apologizes over and over, their hands clutched against his face—I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.

He yanks away. Don’t touch me, he wants to say, I don’t want to be touched ever again, but by the time he’s located his mouth, his eyes pulsing to a hi-hat, his nose burning on a cloud of cherry smoke, the person’s gone too. He presses his fingers to his eyes, wishes for a soft bed, a place to land, but then he’s rocking forward, right into someone else.

At first, they just stare at each other. The man’s got the same look in his eye—something gilt, something feral, an identical fear in his mouth. Harrison blinks hard, and the man does too—not a man, actually, but his own reflection.

He approaches the mirror, jolts at the way he touches himself—more carefully than he’s ever been touched before. Who are you? he wants to say. He’d like to leave this place now, the club, Las Vegas, the earth. He’d like to buy himself a pet tarantula, run off a cliffside, eat a tub of ice cream with his bare hands. Why did he come here again? His mind is so quiet. This could be peace. But who is he? In Jeremiah’s bathroom he knew, but now there’s this stranger ahead of him, the person who must be him—someone’s chandelier earring grazing his jaw, the cowboy hat lopsided, mascara running down his cheeks even though he hasn’t cried. Where did you go? he mouths, but he knows. He’s disappeared also like Jesus in the tomb, his limbs vanishing one by one, his skin melting off his hands—body gone, body gone, body gone. He grabs his cheeks, panicked because he’s on fire, gold tossed into the crucible. He’s going to burn to ash. He’s going to need a burial soon. His face has been stolen, his breastbone and knuckles too. A month ago, someone spat him into a basket like his body was ripe for the offertory—body gone, body gone, body gone.

“Back,” Harrison says, nose grazing the spattered mirror. His chest swells, and maybe he is burning, and maybe he’s right here, hidden somewhere in the pinprick of his reflection. “Back,” he repeats. He isn’t thoughtful. He isn’t profound. Maybe that’s fine. He squeezes his tear-duct, sticks out his tongue. He’ll die eventually, let his body disappear, but not right now. “Body back, body back, body back.”

Cont'd ft. Harry-something (CW: mild violence):

“I know you.”

Harrison whips around. In front of him stands a redheaded man—the same redhead who’d held Jeremiah close on the dance floor, trailed his oily nose along his neck. He wears a pair of browline sunglasses, a black vinyl vest draped with silver chains. He holds a clove, its smoke clouding the ruby pinging off his ring finger, his mouth ghosted with what looks like red lipstick.

“What?” Harrison says, jumping when the bathroom door clangs open and in come two more women. He lifts his fingers to his mouth, pulls up a hangnail until it stings.

“I saw you out there,” says the man, taking a puff of his cigarette. “Harry-something?” He looks like a scarlet ibis, strangely translucent. “JJ’s friend.”

Harrison digs his fingertips into his eye socket. His head feels like it’s been cleaved with an axe. “Harrison.”

Redhead smiles, blows smoke into Harrison’s face. “What’d you say?”

“My name is Harrison.”

“I’m Perry,” he says, and Harrison wouldn’t give a fuck if his name was Matt Dillon or Rob Lowe or Nash Baker because he’s blowing smoke into his face again, his clove flailing like a dislocated finger. He gestures to Harrison’s outfit, nodding. “You’re like a one man show.”

Harrison covers his eyes. Maybe he can find a dark hole in this club to dive into, somewhere no one will find him again. “What does that mean?”

Perry’s smile falters momentarily, but then it’s back, all teeth, no lips. “You’ve got this flair. You ever been told that? Weird, but good, it’s—”

The second he purses his lips to blow out more smoke, Harrison grabs him by the throat, pulls him so close he can see a constellation of blackheads on his chin, feel his heart hammering.

Perry yelps, nearly losing his hold on the clove altogether.

Harrison arcs his jaw around his ear. He smells like orchids, freshwater. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Cont'd - Harrison is weird :)

Perry laughs, the sound strangled beneath Harrison’s grip. Smoke fumbles out of his mouth like worms. He really does look like a bird, which in this case, isn’t a good thing. “Noted.”

“Do you want to kiss me?”

“You have a hand around my throat.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Well, I'll leave it there lmao!!! Sorry I subjected you to this man, but hope you enjoyed this gigantic update!

FIN. MAGNUM OPUS COMPLETE!

See you soon!

Rachel

#writeblr #writing #amwriting #writerblr #writingupdates #ohhhh harrison #this was so hard to write because of all his bad decisions but also SO FUN FOR THE SAME REASON #PLS TELL ME WHAT U THINK IT'S BEEN ME AND THIS CHAPTER FOR A MONTH ALONE I NEED VALIDATION <3 #next chapter perry gets his moped STOLEN (I wonder by who...)#bodyback

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miniscule-meow · 2 years

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Isabell and the Lads: Unfortunate First Meeting (5)

Word Count: ~1.8k

Masterpost

First Part | Last Part | Next Part

“Hey.” The word rumbles around her, dragging her from her sleep. His fingertip nudges lightly against her shoulder. She lets out a small yelp as her eyes shoot open. It is darker in the room than it was before. A small light illuminates from the living room, silhouetting the gargantuan being before her. His hand is far too close, one fingertip still resting against her shoulder. He’s leaned in to look at her, she can see his smile glint in the darkness. Maybe it would have been reassuring if he was properly lit, or if they were the same size. But as it stands, his shadow is stretched over her, covering her completely. It feels quite menacing. She painfully pushes herself to a sitting position and shoves herself back, trying to create some more space between herself and the human looming over her. What a wakeup call. She groans, immediately wincing at the movement. She feels absolutely wretched. Her body is sore and aching, she feels stale from crying and her head rings with a dull pulse left over from the alcohol.

“Hey, you’re okay.” He says softly, “I’ve got you, it’s okay.” His hand slides forward again, finding it’s way behind her. His warm fingers press into her back, offering- no, insisting their support. She cringes away from them. Marcus is obviously ignorant to the fact that he is exactly her problem. “You were asleep for a couple hours. Zeke went to bed, and I’m here to watch over you. I figured you could use something more comfortable than a paper towel to sleep on, so…” he draws out the word as he produces a shoe box, setting it on the counter next to her. “I put this together for you. I think you’re gonna like it.”

The hand that rests against her back shifts. His thumb snakes around to her front, gently pinching her in his grasp. His other fingers curl in around her, offering their support. Her heart hammers in her chest, she can’t breathe. His fingers aren’t squeezing the air out of her, it’s her own anxiety doing that. Though, his fingers do press into the myriad of bruises decorating her ribs. She cries out in a mixture of alarm, discomfort, and panic. “Relax, I’ve got you.” Against her will, her body lifts from the counter, and she is placed inside the box. “There.” He withdraws his hand. “Nice right? It’s like your own little bedroom.” He grins at his cleverness, wanting her to be pleased. Her head whips around seeing no doors, only walls.

“L-let me out.” She turns up to face him, wide eyed.

“Listen, Zeke is already asleep, and I have to go to bed soon too. I don’t want you running off and hurting yourself in the middle of the night when neither of us are awake to help you. Okay?”

“Let. Me. Out!” She shouts up at him, more insistently this time. Her voice is tight with panic.

“In the morning.” He says again, she gets the feeling that he's not going to budge on this. “Get some rest, okay?” With that, he disappears from her sky, leaving her to helplessly look around her cardboard prison.

There’s a bottle cap of water, and a folded up paper towel with some fruit on it that captures her interest. In the other corner of the box there’s a plush rectangle with some squares of fabric draped over it. A bed. Or at least, an attempt at a bed.

Isabell makes a b-line for the food first. Part of her thinks that it might be a bad idea to trust food given to her by a human, but it’s just a passing thought. She is so hungry, and it all looks so perfect. If somehow this food is going to kill her, at least she will die happy.

She hasn’t been able to get her hands on fresh fruit in a very long time. And when she was able to get it, it was typically just a small crushed berry. But now she has apple slices, and banana slices, strawberries, and blue berries.

She feels better once she’s eaten her fill. She carefully wraps a small chunk of apple up in some of the paper towel it was sitting on and stows it away in her pack. For later, because she is getting out of here and she might not ever get to have apples again. Hopefully she can make it home before it gets too mushy. Though, things aren’t looking good for her considering they put her in a box.

She moves awkwardly with the bandage on her leg, limping over to the wall. If she had any of her climbing equipment on her she might have been able to scale it. But without it, she is trapped. She goes over and flops into the bed. It’s soft, she’ll give it that. Though she feels just as tired, it takes longer for her to fall asleep this time. Her mind just keeps spinning, trying to form a plan. But she’s too tired, and everything seems too helpless. She drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

She wakes up several times. Eventually, the light in the room has shifted enough that she figures it’s almost morning. When she moves, she feels like death warmed over. She wants to just drift back to sleep until the humans get up and decide what to do with her. But that feels too much like giving up. She’s not about to ride the slippery slope from shoe box to proper cage. She forces herself to get up, and look around again for anything she can use for an escape.

The base of the bed was a sponge, wrapped in cloth. With great effort she shoves the blankets off and stands the sponge-mattress up against the wall. It isn’t quite tall enough. She tosses the water out of the bottle cap, after greedily drinking from it one last time. Then she uses the cap as a final step on top of her makeshift staircase. Stepping back, she admires her handywork.

It is... precarious to say the least. If she wasn’t injured, she might be less weary. But she’s been left with little choice. Her legs shake as she pulls herself over the side of the box. She takes extra care in making sure that she lands only on her good leg when she drops down to the counter below.

Now she just has to get down. She frowns, looking over the edge of the counter and seeing the long drop to the floor. She looks across the counter for anything that might be helpful, and she sees her rope! One of the humans took it down from the cabinet, but left it on the counter in a heap. She’s saved!

She begins the long and arduous process of scaling down to the floor. It’s a familiar journey, it just takes more than twice as long to complete. She can’t afford to burst a stitch here. She picks her way to the floor, being as slow and methodical as possible.

Once she gets to the bottom, she pulls the release on her knot, and it falls down to her. She coils it and attaches it back to its rightful spot on her pack. She just has to get across the apartment, under the entertainment stand and through the baseboard to get home. Her heart soars, but she doesn’t let herself celebrate for too long, that’s still a lot she needs to accomplish. She walks through the kitchen, hugging the wall just to be safe.

The kitchen opens up into the living room. The door to the apartment is to her right, there’s a hallway to her left. She’ll have to cut across the gap in the hall, but then she can hug the wall the rest of the way to freedom. Marcus is out in the living room, asleep on the couch with a controller in his hand. Whatever game he was playing is paused on the screen. This is just too easy.

Until it isn’t. She swears she hears fate itself laughing at her as a door down the hallway opens, then shuts, the other human stepping out into the hall. Zeke is awake.

She slams herself against the baseboard, hoping that the overhang of the cabinet is enough to obscure her from his view. Maybe he won’t even look down here. She feels like she jinxed herself as soon as she thinks that. The human pauses next to her, his socked feet falling still, close enough she could lean out and touch him. Thankfully, he doesn’t catch her, he looks over to his sleeping roommate.

“Marcus.” He pauses, no response. Zeke sighs and walks over to the couch, nudging him awake. “Marcus.” He repeats.

“Ah- What?” He mumbles groggily, screwing up his face, blinking at the dim light of sunrise hitting his eyes.

“Where’s Isabell. You said you’d keep an eye on her.”

“I am, I am.” He insists groggily.

“You were obviously sleeping," Zeke retorts, unamused.

“No, I know. She’s in the box on the counter.” He slurs through his words, falling back asleep as he speaks them.

“You put her in a box?! Damnit Marcus.” Zeke huffs, sounding incredibly frustrated. Marcus jolts at his tone, rubbing his face in an attempt to wake himself up.

“What? I wanted to keep her safe while we were both sleeping. You would have done the same thing.” He says, defensively.

“No. I really wouldn’t have.” Zeke’s footsteps thunder past her as he quickly steps across the room. Alarms go off in her mind.

Things are much more complicated now. Marcus gets up and goes to mess with the game systems in the entertainment stand. He’s crouching right over where she needs to go for her escape. But more alarmingly, Zeke is checking the box that she has notably, escaped from.

“Shit.” He says quietly. “Marcus, your stupid plan didn’t even work.” He grumbles, looking back to his friend.

“What?”

“She’s gone.” He says simply.

“What?!” Marcus repeats obviously flustered, leaping to his feet.

“Stop! Marcus don’t move.” Zeke raises his voice, freezing Marcus in his tracks. She gets the impression that that isn’t something he does a lot. “Listen to me. Be. Very. Careful. Watch where you walk, okay?”

“What do you think I would-” Marcus begins, but Zeke must have flashed him a pretty severe look, because he stops. “Never mind. Uh. I’ll just… I’ll just stay here.” He carefully settles back down onto the floor. Placing himself unmoving right in front of where she needs to go. Damn it. “She probably didn’t get far, right? She might be on the counter still. I don’t know how she could have gotten down. Check behind stuff, maybe?” Marcus rambles, trying to be helpful.

“Thank you. Marcus.” Zeke says in a short clip. Obviously annoyed by Marcus’s chatter. Marcus takes the hint and shuts up. Zeke carefully beings picking through the countertop.

“Isabell.” He calls her name gently, sending eerie chills down her spine. “Please don’t hide. It’s a lot safer if we can see you.”

This is as good of a window she’s going to get. He’ll turn his attention to the floor when he’s done with his search of the counter. She has to get moving. Small bump in the plan, not a big deal, she tells herself. She’ll just have to take a detour.

#g/t #g/t writing #g/t stories #giant tiny #giant #tiny #marcus just makes bad decisions sometimes alright #isabell and the lads #i told myself to wait until next week to post this but like i have no self control so here it is #stay tuned for me immediately posting the next chapter too #my writing

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snowe-zolynn-rogers · 9 months

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Thank god I haven’t revealed Kill Lunar KC’s name besides being Kill Code/KC yet, because I’m thinking of changing it from the one I originally intended.

#five nights at freddy's #fnaf #sun and moon show #sams #kill lunar au #kill code moon #love these midway decisions #when my brain will literally not even write the next chapter #my brain is cockblocking me from writing!#snoweytrashposts #snoweytalks #snoweyrambles #snoweyrants

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gallawitchxx · 2 years

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💈 barber!mickey & (not so) shaggy!ian💈

here's the 32nd installment for this week's @galladrabbles prompt: "the world out there is complicated, and there are beasts in the night, and delight and pain, and the only thing that makes it okay, sometimes, is to reach out a hand in the darkness and find another hand to squeeze, and not to be alone." by @lizelandre

catch up/read in full HERE -- updates weekly! [ read scene one & two in their entirety ON AO3 ]

- - - -

Mickey thrums with something akin to satisfaction. Excitement. Butterflies in his stomach, a hopeful burning in his chest, and for once, none of his usual skepticism—that feeling of, something this good couldn’t possibly be happening to a chump like me.

It’s different. Settled, like it’s been decided already.

He’s been waiting at the starting block his entire fucking life, and now finally here it is: the sound of the pistol.

“You wanna go out with me, Gallagher?”

Ian’s face splits open, smiling, yet serene. Says, “Lead the way, Milkovich.”

This time, when Ian leaves the shop, he’s not alone.

#alright my sweets! that's the end of scene 2!#16 weeks for ian. 16 weeks for mickey #but have no fear -- next week we shall move onto scene 3 #should we switch back to ian's pov?#go to a more omniscient vibe to snag both of their thoughts?#decisions decisions #HELP! THEY'RE GOING ON A DATE!#i'll throw it up on ao3 later so you can read chapter 2 in full!#barber!mickey my sweet #shaggy!ian my pet #shameless #shameless fanfiction #galladrabbles #ian x mickey #bee writes 🐝 ✍🏼

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nostalgia-tblr · 10 months

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in fic news i realised that i've accidentally commited myself to several scenes of jotunn!sylvie porn rather than just the one that i'd initially added mainly for the weirdness factor

#oops #having stupidly made a point of her hiding the blue i need to let the blue run free by the time they get to the happy ending don't i?#on the plus side this is a happy ending where nobody has to kill thor! ...because he already died before the fic even started :(#The Sylki Arranged Marriage AU #i also have to carefully make sure they don't kiss at any point during the 3 1/2 sex scenes that take place before their first kiss #another of my stupid decisions (so far) is a subplot that might enrage all three of the loki/sigyn shippers #my outline is for 16 chapters but i have the nagging suspicion that civil wars should last longer than sex scenes so...???#(yeah i read a lot about the wars of the roses but i skip most of the boring bits about battles and that sort of shit)#(i am there for THE DRAMA. for the SOAP OPERA. just tell me who died this time so i can update my chart of Dramatic Persons)#(that's english for Dramatis Personae. or at least it should be. the more Dramatic persons are nearer the top of such lists aren't they?)#(anyway this fic isn't about the wars of the roses but one of the chapter titles is The Kingmaker which was an accidental pun btw)#(how accidental? well i only just this moment realised that it's a pun if that gives you some idea of how well-planned this fic is)#none of that shit's in the next chapter tho that one's about frigga being a bitch and sif being hot LOLOLOLOL YOLO OR SOMETHING

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wintertimestoryteller · 1 year

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Linked Universe x Reader Fairy Tale Collection

@luimagines . Third scene in the opening act, it will have 5 scenes in total before actual romance, not fully satisfied with it though so I might remaster it in the future, these past few weeks have been... Something, but I still wanted to move things along and post this week so hope whoever reads this enjoys ^^

Fun Fact: All folks in the theater crew's names are references to an indie series of musical operas, wonder how many people will catch each one, just thought it fitting given the setting, I wouldn't recommend getting attached though, they won't appear at all past the opening act unlike Dark's hired help, who will have a little bit of purpose on the narrative and have some scenes but won't take the spotlight, wouldn't recommend getting attached to any of them.

A few things happened in between the time Reader fell asleep, woke up and fell asleep again.

Plus, there's going to be lots of easter eggs to other fairy tales and fairy tale adjacent stories in the story plus towards Zelda in general, some obvious, others not. Might put some fun facts about them in here before each story and/or act if you're all interested, you can see who will have each story by checking out the original prompt on Luimagines' blog except for First's, Calamity's and Spirit's, I have something special in mind for them. FD only isn't in this story because I'd have to dip into mythological territory for him, but I'll probably write a solo thing for him later on to compensate. Look out for a Masterlist of this after we are done with the opening act.

Oh and uh, warning for fairy tale typical violence in the next scene (I mean, the Disney versions are technically already gruesome and the most recognizable, but other versions also go pretty darn dark) plus Zelda typical violence, so just a quick warning while I can even if it's only on the next act, though the character will technically be fine, if probably traumatized.

Opening Act, Scene III

It barely took a minute to explain the situation to Time, and not even a full hour for your little group consisting of yourself, Twilight, Cal, Time and Wild all to recall the others to the village square to explain the situation in full. The director long since left it and the oak tree looked awfully lonely for a moment against the backdrop of a darkening horizon (when had the storm clouds thickened so much? It was plenty sunny a few hours ago).

As you guessed, Time already heard from the mayor and innkeeper that the inn had been attacked, and he likely would have talked to the director had you not beaten him to it.

"50 rupees this is a trap. Come on now, show of hands for those who think so." Came the sharp, downright arsenic tone from Legend, caged and ornery like a fox (rabbit?) Who once had it's tail caught in a trap and learned the hard way to chew his limbs off to be able to flee for another day.

You can't exactly blame him for getting snappy though, the situation is pretty unsettling and you all know it. And this group had seen a lot.

Four snorted a bit, "No bet, I'm not losing money over something that obvious. I don't know about you all but I really can't believe in coincidences with the way things are lining up."

'It's definitely the work of the Shadow then.', signed Calamity, posture straight and alert. Hand on the hilt of his sword like a silent sentinel, as if expecting we'd all be jumped. A clear contrast from the quiet but polite young man from before, box up the young man, set loose the soldier, '... We're being cornered, led by the noose. We shouldn't accept.'

"It might be the only lead we will have in a while though." Grimaced Warriors, arms crossed as he leans against the oak tree, his strategic mind going a mile a minute through the possibilities. As expected of a war commander and the left hand of his Zelda, "Don't get me wrong, this is all bloody unnerving. Specially given how (Reader)'s conversation went with the director, but it might be better in the long run to risk it and get more leads once the storm passes. Who knows when we'll next find shelter? Getting sick with a storm like this coming with zero information wether or not there's a second village nearby or if any other person will let us stay for a while would just leave us more vulnerable."

"Doesn't exactly mean we have to like it.", Sighed Spirit, a hand on his hip, nervous and skittish but doing his best to contribute anyway, "It's like stepping onto the tracks when you know for a fact there's a train coming no matter how good the reason is, but Cap' is right. Me and Wind asked around, doesn't seem like there's any other villages or cities nearby where we can stop, and the terrain isn't right for caves in this Hyrule. We'd be in big trouble eventually even if we retraced our steps."

"Speaking of that, what do any of you make of this storm?", Hyrule interjects, looking at a frowning Wind, "I can't sense anything particularly magical about the town, except maybe the fortune teller and the potion makers, but..."

Wind groans, frustrated as he crosses his arms, "That's the thing, it looks like it should be unnatural. Winds like that don't blow easily in any of your Hyrule's, specially so far away from sea, it's usually just in mine. It looks wrong, but it doesn't feel wrong! The Wind Waker won't clear it either." Spirit put a hand on his shoulder in sympathy, clearly this was driving the Sailor up the wall as the Link most attuned to the flow of winds and weather, except maybe peculiarly enough Four.

"Have you tried the Song of Day?"

Time nodded to First, "We did it already with the Sailor's baton, no change." True to his word, the howling of storm winds picked up as if on cue, or maybe spite. Almost blowing Legend's hat straight off his head to match Wild's hood, you quickly snatched it as he cursed before it could get too far.

Yup, if this was a natural storm you'd eat Hyrule's cooking for a month straight at a bare minimum. "Do you think there's dark magic involved at all?", You inquire to Twilight, Warriors, Sky and Four, the one's who had the most experience with it out of the group as you finished helping Wild with putting most of your cooking supplies away. Gooseflesh crawls up your arms, it was getting chilly and you couldn't help but look over Wind and Spirit, though it seems Warriors beat you to getting their cloaks repaired at the tailors. They've ripped recently and the thread ran out so you, Legend, himself and Sky couldn't do it as usual.

"Here," he passes you your cloak from his slate, you blink as he gives you a smile, "It's about time I gave it back to you anyway." The habit of Chain members accidentally grabbing stuff from one another was legendary by now (and the fact that some items like Sky's Sailcloth, Twilight's necklace and Four's Sword were off limits, you'd have better luck getting Legend to allow you to borrow an item than getting them to part from those), you just didn't think it would extend to you.

"Thank you.", Smiling, you snuggle into the fabric, tilting your head at the headshake from Twilight as he takes the floor, "If there is, it's too faint for any of us to really notice it. Or it's just not the type we are using to deal with."

"We won't exactly know unless we're in the building most likely.", Sighed your resident captain, the smith nods along and adds in, "There definitely was some around the inn though, in the rubble. But not really anywhere else strong enough to notice, could be because of the monster presence here recently."

"Fi's been quiet too, plus that Raven fellow didn't even seem to bat an eye at her presence, unlike the Shadow would." Sky spoke thoughtfully, you had seen them pass by one another didn't they? It was likely then that he checked.

"Mhn, they act strangely but they're not possessed from what we can see either."

Legend shakes his head with a huff, "Much as I hate to admit they're right, disguised monsters usually have cracks in their facades, either it's a really good, really patient one, or just a Goddess damned weirdo with a few screws loose."

Neither alternative is good, you think and despite yourself, your gaze drifts to the theater building again. True to the stranger's word, the doors were open and the gales were picking up, you still have that niggling feeling from before, the unease that picks up the shoe before letting it drop, the feeling of being at a stalemate with a Lynel or breaths away from getting shot down by a Guardian as you look at the dim lights of the second floor of candles and lanterns likely being lit up. As much as you wanted to believe this was a rare struck of luck the Chain some times had when traveling (in meeting some times strange, but helpful individuals), something in there shook you, and laughed in your face when you couldn't figure out where the possible dagger was coming from.

The thunder roars as lightning strikes the earth, joining the once peaceful breeze turned into a furious zephyr in it's howling, screaming melody as the first drops of water begin to fall, seems the grace period you and the Chain had was up.

"Old man?" "Grandsire?" Inquired both Twilight and Sky, as you all leave the final decision to them (an inevitability really, with a group this big and diverse). Time and First trade a look, seemingly having a silent conversation, before First nods lightly, sighing, Time nods in acquiesce, "We'll accept lodging until the storm is gone and not a moment less, everyone be on your guards. And anything suspicious or sign of the Shadow you tell one of us immediately, we mean it, do not engage or go off alone, this doesn't look like a Dungeon but we can quickly be proven wrong."

And that was that.

As one, you all walk towards the theater, the director seemed to be talking with someone at the door, a young woman with curly hair close to her chin. They wave her off as she runs back inside the building, tugging excitedly on the arm of another young lady, this one tall with hair a pale shade of blonde to the seats where you can briefly spot a side door who giggles at her excitement, the director gives them both a fond grin before turning to your group with a wink, "Nothing like seeing young people have fun mhm? So, I take it you made your choice."

First nods respectfully, voice steady and even, "Indeed, thank you very much for your hospitality."

The director rolls their eyes with a chuckle, ushering you all in, "Oh stop, you'll make me blush! It's nothing really, I have more than enough space and am always eager to please and entertain."

"It's still appreciated nonetheless."

They shake their head at Time, "So very polite, no need. Now! In you all go, I'll show you all to your rooms on the second floor and the communal area backstage."

You pause, just a step behind Sky, Wild and Hyrule, who scanned the warm lobby space with open interest, Spirit barely being able to hold Wind back from just running off as the director closes the doors behind Calamity, Legend and Warriors, their Hyrule's didn't have anything similar to theaters, at least not anymore on some cases not to mention many of the Links would have had time or interest to frequent these spaces anyway, so their curiosity was warranted. A glance from Time and First quickly stop any shenanigans at the director's back, "Has the communal area always existed?" You ask.

"Not really, most of these buildings don't have those. But I wanted the best for my actors you know? Some of them have nowhere to go, and letting such talent go to waste would be a shame. Hence why I had something of a substitute for it built in and rooms up above.", Shrugged Raven, going through the open doors on their left, "Comes in handy anyway when things like this happen, we have plenty of rooms for you all individually, so don't worry about sharing. Backstage and the communal area are just beyond the main treat of this place." There's a grin on their voice as they say so, and you quickly see why as your breath is briefly taken away.

The auditorium is beautiful, open and spacious with a grand stage where most of the lightning would be focused on, but generally bright enough as there are visitors as you spot a young man with red hair helping a blonde lady light the other lanterns. The curtains open with minimum scenery on the dark wood stage and the stands go from the very beginning of the auditorium, to the sides and second floor where two stairs covered by a dark red carpet lead up to the boxes', an iron chandelier hangs from the dark wooden rafters, casting light onto wooden beams and gray walls. Simple and solemn, but elegant enough to feel comfortable and homey rather than something more opulent or rigid, at least on any other occasion.

Raven's grin widens, seemingly satisfied at your reaction and what they seem to find on the faces of the Chain from open appreciation to curious interest, they stand in the road to the stands and take a bow, "Welcome to Astoria Theater, enjoy your stay! Once you've seen one of our performances you'll never want to leave!", They straighten up, something about their movement feels... Off, but you shrug it off as they nod to the red haired young man and lady sliding down the stairs, by the stairs you spot two side doors at the corners of the stage's stairs, the salt and pepper haired playwright seems more than pleased to themselves as they nod to each one, "Communal area and kitchen to the right, bathrooms and showers to the left. Feel free to help yourselves to the pantry, our home is your home." With a quick hop and sweep of their sleeve, they call the young red haired man over, "Edgar here will lead you to your rooms and if anything feel free to ask him, Anabella, Amelia, Byron or Priscilla, there's enough space so you all shouldn't need to bunk together." The newly named Edgar nods, a black cat comes hopping and balancing on the seats to settle on the theater's owners shoulders, earning itself an ear pinch before they move on, "All I really ask is that you keep away from the quarters of the crew and my own. Not many of us around today since most have their own places now, but just enough we can probably be nice enough hosts."

"Also keep away from the costumes and prop rooms and the stage", chimed in the other blonde lady, either Amelia, Anabella or Priscilla you guessed, "Byron is downright feral when someone messes with his hard work."

Edgar raised an eyebrow at her, "Downright, Anabella? You'd think he was raised by a pack of Wolfos if not by seeing him with that little village herbalist."

"I HEARD THAT!" Comes the yell from backstage, as a young man with brown hair sends a scatching glare from behind the curtain, the Chain as one jumps, and you thank your lucky stars for their restraint indoors even as you have to half remind yourself not to throw your dagger either. "Costume making with you people is maddening and you know it, no thanks to your stunts! And don't you bring Lynn into this you pompous pri-"

"Alright! Settled down you two!" Raven claps sharply with a stern look, Edgar sneers at presumably Byron while the later growls, they sigh, pinching the bridge of their nose before sending your group an apologetic, tired look you've seen on Time's or First's face many, many times over the course of this adventure, "Apologies about them, things can get hectic some times. Anyway, just don't go to those places uninvited and remember your end of the bargain." Brightening up, they grin, "Nothing like meals and a show during rainy days you know? It will be a nice distraction for us all I'd wager, we'll make sure to call you lot so you can take it in the stands."

"It's alright.", First relaxed, hand that had instinctually gone to the sword at his side falling limp, Time was the second to compose himself fully with a wry sigh, "Trust me, we understand pretty well."

"Thank you so much again for your hospitality." Sky spoke up, smiling warmly, Edgar seemed to blink a few times, Anabella almost dropped a candle she had in hand, while Raven simply smiled, "Don't mention it, really."

"We mean it, it's appreciated." Nodded Warriors, with Twilight right behind him.

They shrug, waving your group off. "It's not much at all, as long as we can tell stories we are satisfied. It's in the theater's and on the lobby's sign and all."

Edgar nods briefly, "All of us fell for the theater at some point due to that. It's only inevitable."

... For some reason, that makes you pause, that prickle of unease rearing it's head. You study them closely, but the director simply shrugs, sweeping sleeves flapping about as they shoo you group off. "Now off you go! You've had a long day, take your time, unwind, and we'll have the stage set properly tomorrow."

With that, you're all lead away. To the second floor and, true to Raven's word. There was an available room for everyone, all of them standard and pretty much the same with a single bed, desk with an unlit lantern, and a simple wooden wardrobe, after showing us all to our rooms, Edgar left swiftly, muttering something about 'needing to redo the scenery'. Tiredness you've barely registered crept onto the edges of your mind, you stifle a yawn and wave to your company, "I think that's my cue, I'm going to take a nice long nap for now."

"First sign of a bed and already trading us for it?", Teased Wild, making you poke his chest and flick a pointy ear, lips pursed so you won't smile at the little twitch, "Of course, just because I travel and adore you lads doesn't mean you're not exhausting to my sanity."

"Ouch." Mock hissed Spirit, Wind from his side hmphing, "I'll have you know we are a delight, thank you very much! If anything being around us is probably better for your health!"

You chuckle, ruffling Wind's hair and patting Spirit's head beneath his hat, ignoring both the indignant squawk and light bat like an annoyed cat, "I know, I know, don't take it personally. I'm really just tired."

"We know, it's been a long day and an even longer week," Sky smiled softly, giving you a gentle push onwards, before stifling a yawn, "Honestly I might follow your example."

"We meet later on for dinner?" Chimed in Wild, shifting in place, "I kind of want to check their pantry before anything else. See what we'll be working with."

Time nodded, addressing the Chain as one, "We'll meet up in the auditorium, you all get some rest until then. It will be a long stay so we may as well get used to this place."

"Don't give any trouble to our hosts, and if any of you notice something off come fetch me or Time." Came from First, you catch the tail end of agreement from the boys as you open and close your door, breathing in deeply.

You still can't push that feeling that something about this is too easy, or that the other shoe is going to drop. But faced with a warm bed and at least somewhere semi-secure from monsters after so long on the road, you can't bring yourself to dwell too deeply on in it, you set your bag on the wardrobe and atop a pile of wooly blankets. Picking one for your own use while you can, take of your boots and set them by the night stand, dim the lantern and then fall back onto the mattress, wrapping yourself comfortably and not forgetting to place the dagger beneath your pillow.

You fall quickly into a warm and dreamless sleep, unaware of a black cat with crimson eyes watching you from above, as the shadows shift unnaturally and the lantern almost goes out, before it slinks away into the shadows, slipping away unnoticed.

_______________________________________________

Long after night fell, dinner had been had along a relaxed retelling about the adventures of a young wooden puppet who became a human and all activity had ceased from most other guests and hosts alike. The darkness and shadows of the corridors shifted oddly, flickering as if someone had set a candle by them when all light have been either dimmed or blow out, they seethed and snapped and twisted as form was given to one of their own even as they hissed at the anomaly, wanting to be set to their natural, usually still and silent state again.

Sadly, they wouldn't be able to return to sleep just yet.

First came legs, then a torso and arms, neck and a head with short chin lenght hair, shades draped upon them in a shape like a tunic's and forming boots at their feet and red, red eyes, a shade bright like rubies found in the Era of Wild, bright even in the dark. Something snapped within the darkness, visibly shifted and cracked itself into place, and the figure stepped out, while once as obsidian as the shadows he was named from, color seemed to flood into the being as the remaining shades melted away, giving way to dark purple hair held back with a black headband, sickly pale skin from being unable to stay in the sunlight, and where there once was only the shape of eyes now there was a sclera.

There in the empty lobby stood a perfect copy of The Hero of Minish, the Shadow behind the Four Sword Wielder.

Shadow stretched, cracking his neck with a relieved sigh, "Now that is much more like it." His crimson eyes surveyed the room almost critically, narrowed and wary, he clicked his tongue with a sigh, wrinkling his nose, the only sound in a theater as quiet as a mausoleum, "Sheesh, no wonder Rainbow was on edge... This place is enough to give even me the creeps." And he had worked under Vaati, yikes. Shrugging, he went forward into the darkened auditorium, footsteps silent as the building, "Let's see what we can find, shall we?"

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Humming, the masked figure grinned, putting quill to paper from a darkened spot in the balcony, the Director walked away from their room with a candle in hand and a case on the other heading down the stairs, a black cat with blood red eyes stared judgmentally at the masked one's glee, "There you are." They waved the cat off, it rolled it's eyes with a hiss, but melded into the shadows easily enough, the figure leaned comfortably against the balcony railing and got to writing, ink crimson and then back where the quill passed, "First thing most fairy tales and stories teach you: never wander off alone, good intentions or not."

Opening Act, Scene III End.

#linked universe x reader #lu chain #lu x reader #linked universe x reader au #short one this time #no Shadows shall be harmed in the making of next chapter #just arguably traumatized #Dark Link is questioning every single of his decisions at this point #While whoever is behind Raven is practically vibrating as much as I am to get on with the plot #Might put this on ao3 eventually #just so I won't bother Luimagines every post xD

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